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All posts for the month November, 2018

Write where we are

Published November 22, 2018 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

As I have mentioned  a number of times, much of my education took place in Catholic Schools.  (Three actually) Now I am back on the Mother Ship, teaching et, al. basically living the dream.   I do have flashbacks.  In the lexicon of Catholic Education,the students who attend Catholic School have their Religious education needs met during the school day.  The children who attend public schools go to CCD. Not real sure if that’s what it’s still called.  These kids were taught in a less rigid, more folksy-summer-camp environment.

While we had to sing songs like “Lo’how rose ere blooming” ( I swear that song has about thirty verses.) and “Bloom where you’re planted” (I don’t even want to get into the problems I have with that song. Suffice it to say that  The Mom, she with her MRE and me, with my M.Ed and MA. had a conversation that ended with an agreeing to disagree.)

Meanwhile the CCD kids got to sing the rousing song”Thank you Lord for giving us life. Right where we are” by Diane Davis. That song is so rousing and catchy that I remember it after only hearing it once, forty years ago.

I’ve been thinking about that song a lot lately. Not just because I’m in a whirlwind of activity, but also because I am reminding me to be grateful

As for the above mentioned whirlwind:

I have this week, and this week alone, to finish moving out of the house where I have lived for 13 years. This house was selected by the Adulteress when she and EH were first a couple.  I lived here when I was recovering from that time my head blew up, because EH and I WERE STILL MARRIED. I don’t know why the rest of the world seemed to think it was acceptable that she still live here while I was trying to grow a new brain.

Here’s something I’ve never told anyone. (I know, so why not share it with the folk who don’t know me.) When I had finished my recovery and was ready to be released back into the wild, I decided to go back to Farmington and deal with all of the things I left behind there.  I did not stay because EH wouldn’t tell the Adulteress to get out.  So I went back to the desert to figure the rest of it out.

Now if I hadn’t gone back to F-town, I wouldn’t ever have met Actor Boy.   I can’t imagine a life without knowing him.

I really could have done without the heartbreak and angst and everything that followed, but here we are.  So I’m emptying the house (hard to do) And moving into an apartment. That’s actually pretty easy to do.  The hard stuff still has to be faced. My Amanda Friend has made suggestions that make sense. I’m trying to follow that.

I haven’t looked in the box of wedding pictures. I’m not going to have room for the piano. I don’t know what I’m going to do about that.  I’m looking for the box that has my Nativity set and my Christmas stocking in it.   The Mom made the stocking for me when I was a tiny child.

What I truly do not want to face is the eventuality that these parts of my past are gone. Just gone. I know they’re just things, but come on, I got rid of all of the pickled corn, I’ve dealt with the murky pool in the backyard. I said good-bye to Mr. Steve and sat in with his corpse until the funeral home decided to drive the half mile to come get him (I realize that Steve would have been perfectly ok with me wheeling him in his hospital bed down the frontage road to the home. It’s probably better that I didn’t.)  I have lived the last two years of my life without the love thereof because BatBeard’s work takes him elsewhere.

I live with thin layer of panic brewing because the country is being run by an orange madman. I work 10 hour days with very little resources and ever increasing demands.

I shouldn’t have to harness my rage to get over something I’m sure is already gone.

So am I grateful that I grew enough of my brain back to give me the wisdom to know the difference right where we are.

 

It’s a process. (Maybe I should take it out of the box)

Published November 5, 2018 by Lynda Christine Rodriguez

In the so-long-ago-it-seems-like-it-happened-to-someone-else, I made a stand and withdrew from the MA program at Texas Women’s University. I was young and had hope and a purpose so I picked a side, Process based evaluation vs. Product based evaluation.

It seems such a senseless argument, particularly for Theater program, but I firmly believe that there are some prices too high to pay for a performance and that, to some performers, the process is the goal.  If only I remembered that a scant nine years later when my brain exploded because I was trying to have the perfect body while being the perfect performer, but I digress.

Still and all, I’m where I have chosen to be career-wise, such as it is and overall, I think I made the right choice, as when push comes to shove, I want to go out knowing that I fought the good fight and did the best that I could.

That being said, I’m tired of waking up scared.

Not scared in that there are zombies trying to munch on my tenderized brain as I flee, a flurry of post-it notes in my wake.

No, I’m talking real fear.  The fear that comes from knowing you are doing your best and still watching yourself drown.

The house has sold. (Whee!) Now I have about 30 days to get everything out/sold/trashed and find somewhere new to live.  I’ve started sifting through the detritus of a dissoled marriage and stuff Steve left behind. There are  a few things that Actor Boy left when he went to college. There’s not a few things of BatBeard’s that I need to relocate.

And then there’s my stuff. I know it’s just stuff.  But it’s not just stuff.

It’s the piano, that I fondly refer to as August Wilson. My grandfather bought it for my mother when she was learning to play the piano. It was convereted from a player piano so it can’t be retuned; it needs to be restrung.

It’s books.  My favorites and a few that were gifts. It’s the book that is a compilation of Bob Dylan’s lyrics; the songs that got me through the days of madness as my parent’s marriage dissolved and I tried to finish college

It’s the drafting table. The last vestige of Fort Worth Theater. Steve Garrett rescued it from the rubble and it’s mine.

It’s the pictures. The oil painting that Steve had in his living room and the framed Georgia O’Keeve print that my mother had framed for my ex-husband.  It’s the pictures that have to be gone through, all of the wedding pictures that need to be stored or discarded because the frames might mean something to someone else.

Yes, it is all stuff, and I do have to process all of it. Very soon.

Because in all of the stuff, there’s the memories. There’s the TEN, 10, ten mason jars of pickled corn that my Esther Hembree put up for my ex, back in the days when there was a Homefort in Tracy City.

I have the jars and I am more than a little resentful that I have custody of the corn and the jars and I have to move and find a place for a piano because someone else screwed up. (Or down, you remember, girl with the little rat face and teeth that make an x in front.)

And then there’s the fear that it’s all ending anyway, so who cares?

Because, as you know, in the litany of choices I made, the biggest one involved me promising to keep my students safe.

We are in a world where that is becoming exponentially harder as hate spews from the mouths of those who have more guns, more money and more voice than the rest of us.

I know I have plenty to do without worrying about this, too, but I do.

It’s part of the process.